


Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Some time during AtS S5, Spike and Angel go out together on a mission. Based on my nekid numbers prompts of Angel, tree, spring vacation, and hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post both parts today. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[sitting in a tree](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/sitting%20in%20a%20tree), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree (1/2)**_  
**Title:** Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree   
**Part:** 1 of 2    
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Some time during AtS S5, Spike and Angel go out together on a mission. Based on my nekid numbers prompts of Angel, tree, spring vacation, and hurt/comfort.   
**Credits: **Thank you to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and to [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent banner!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post both parts today. Comments are adored!   


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cby55/)  
---  
  
**Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree**

 

Part One

 

“It’s robins that are meant to be the first signs of spring, not sodding vampires.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

“Or perhaps you’ve been reading that shite your fellow bogtrotter wrote, and you’ve decided we can sprout wings and flap about as bats.”

“Shut _up_, Spike!”

Spike snickered and shifted around, making the leaves rustle. Just when Angel was about to remind him to be still, Angel heard the _snick_ of a lighter. He looked over in astonishment to see Spike lighting a cigarette. With a half-swallowed growl, Angel snatched the cigarette from Spike, crushed it in his hand, and dropped the remains to the ground.

“Oi! That was my last fag!”

“We’re supposed to be hiding!”

“Oh, come on. Have a look at that lot.” Spike waved his arm at the swaying, writhing people beneath them. “Every one of them drunker than a priest on Sunday. They wouldn’t notice if a bloody Chorago demon shat on their heads, and they can’t hear anything over that crap they call music. Iggy Pop, Richard Hell, Lou Reed—that’s music. This is just…just soulless bloody noise.”

Angel sighed and tuned Spike out as the younger vampire went on a long and rambling exposition on the relative merits of British versus American punk music, and then told an improbable story involving Siouxsie Sioux, a prostitute, a guitar, and Wembley Stadium. Angel knew if he mentioned his own preferences in popular music—Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, maybe a little Gordon Lightfoot—Spike would probably laugh so hard he’d fall out of the tree. So Angel just clamped his mouth shut and kept his eyes open for Sweat Demons, thin, spectral creatures that fed off the chemicals secreted by young adult humans. It was a disgusting habit, Angel thought, but then who was he to judge? At least it didn’t harm the humans. Angel would have been perfectly content to let the demons continue in their perspiration-lapping ways, but one of the firm’s clients, a man who owned several clubs, claimed the demons were creeping customers out and harming his business. Given the dense crowd that gyrated below, Angel found that hard to believe. But that was all right. He’d mostly come tonight for the excuse of getting out of the goddamn office, of pretending he was a hunter again instead of a corporate drone who was wearing his soul away bit by tiny bit.

Spike had insisted on joining him, clearly for the unbridled opportunity to be a pain in the ass. Angel had tried to shake him, but there was Spike, clinging like a leech, smirking and smoking and resting his muddy boots on the Viper’s dashboard. In the end, it had been easier to just let him tag along than it was to fight him over it. Angel just didn’t seem to have the strength to really struggle anymore.

The swarm of people below gradually thinned. The music slowed, and many of the dancers slumped against each other, just rocking back and forth with the rhythm. Angel moved around a little. The branch was getting really uncomfortable, much too hard and narrow under his ass.

“Doesn’t look like they’re going to show,” Spike said. “Pity. Rather fancied killing something tonight.”

“We’re not supposed to kill them, Spike. Just talk to them. Tell them to stop scaring the kids.”

Spike sighed mournfully. “I know. Don’t you miss dismembering things, Liam? Getting in a really good brawl and tearing things up so much you lose track whether the blood is theirs or yours?”

Angel did, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “We have _souls_, William.”

“So? We can still slaughter bad guys, can’t we?”

“There are other ways to fight besides brutal bloodshed. More sophisticated ways.”

“Pfft. You’ve been hanging about with the lawyers too much, Peaches. Leave the injunctions and all that shite to them. We don’t belong in bloody offices. We’re _vampires_, mate.”

Angel grunted a noncommittal reply and watched as a tall redhead wearing very little—and there was no way those tits were natural, he decided—nuzzled against a muscular man with a faux-Celtic tattoo ringing his bicep. She had a tatt also, a tramp stamp that was clearly visible over the waistband of her low-cut shorts. Something with a dolphin and some flowers, maybe. It was hard to see, even with his sharp vision.

“Why don’t you give it up, Angel?”

“I’ll wait another half hour, just in case.”

“Not this, berk. The whole thing, I mean. Wolfram and bleeding Hart and all their minions. Go back to your hotel. Your friends would follow you, you know. Percy and Charlie and Fred. Even Lorne. Or leave LA altogether. It’s too sodding sunny anyhow. We could go…anywhere. Europe. South America. Haven’t been to Asia in ages, yeah?”

Angel turned his head to look at Spike. The way the lights from below shone upwards emphasized the sharpness of Spike’s cheekbones, the pallor of his skin, the radioactive glow of his hair. He looked fragile, vulnerable. He looked like an animated corpse. “_We_ are not going anywhere, Spike. You’re welcome to go haunt the rest of the world. I didn’t ask for you to be here. I don’t want you to be here.”

Spike sneered at him, but Angel was pretty sure he caught a flash of hurt in those blue eyes. Then Spike turned away and began to pick at the tree trunk, scratching off bits of bark and lichen and examining them closely before sprinkling them into the air. Angel felt a stab of remorse, which was normal, but this time it was over what he’d said to Spike, and that wasn’t normal at all. He didn’t feel guilt over the way he treated the little nuisance—he just didn’t.

More people left the club, trailing in twos and threes and fours across the fake beach that served as a dance floor, calling out good-nights to each other as they made their way to the parking lot, hastily entering names and numbers into cell phone contact lists. The waitstaff began to clean up. They picked up bottles and cups and wrappers, rearranged chairs, wiped down tables. The band played one last song, something slow and mournful and oddly old-fashioned, then packed up their instruments and amplifiers. Two men chatted quietly in Spanish as they raked the sand level again. Then the neon sign for La Playa Azul switched off, the heavy gate between the club’s outdoor area and the parking lot was shut and locked, and all was silent and still.

 “Well, that was pretty much a bust,” Spike said. His voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Going to try again tomorrow?”

Angel shrugged, even though he knew Spike couldn’t see him. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

***

 

Angel had intended on showering when he got home and then taking a nap for a couple of hours. Even vampires needed some sleep. But before he made it to his elevator, Gunn accosted him with a huge stack of papers that had to be signed immediately, then Harmony and Lorne pestered him for details on some party they were supposed to be throwing for some clients, then Wesley dragged him into an endless meeting. He actually dozed off a little during the meeting, but Wes kicked him hard in the shin, startling him so much he knocked his glass of blood onto the lap of the visiting ambassador from a hell dimension with a name that was all consonants and sounded to Angel like a cat throwing up a hairball. The ambassador was not pleased, so Angel had to spend hours afterward making nice, trying to make it up to him. Her. It. Whatever.

The only good thing about the day was that there was no sign at all of Spike. Every time a door opened, Angel expected Spike to stalk in with his duster rustling and his boots stomping, bringing with him the familiar scent of tobacco and leather and hair gel and booze, but it was never him. Angel didn’t collide with him when he turned corners in a hurry, didn’t find Spike flirting with the receptionists so that they ignored the ringing phones, didn’t see him keeping Fred from her work, didn’t discover him guzzling Angel’s private reserve of otter blood. No sign of him at all. Good.

Angel had no idea where Spike went when he wasn’t irritating people at the office. Out drinking, probably. Maybe he finally decided to leave LA. It wasn’t as if he was a ghost anymore, tethered to Wolfram &amp; Hart. And it wasn’t as if anything in particular was keeping him in town. Maybe he’d even gone back to Italy in search of Buffy. Angel bit back a stab of jealousy. No, Spike probably hadn’t done that. After their recent visit to Rome, even that moron probably realized that ship had sailed. Not only had it sailed, it had never really been in port to begin with.

Angel sighed and tried to focus on whatever the hell Gunn was going on about. Something about forfeitures and liens and eminent domain. Angel had a headache. Did Tylenol work for the undead?

When the sun set and most of the staff had gone home for the day, Angel had time only for a quick shower and change of clothes, and then he headed down to the garage.

And of course there was Spike, sitting in the passenger seat of the Viper, playing some sort of handheld video game that made earsplitting beeping sounds. He didn’t even look up as Angel sat down in the driver’s seat.

“You are _not_ bringing that toy on a stakeout,” Angel said, starting up the engine.

“Of course I am. I’ll turn off the bloody sound, won’t I?”

“And how are you going to watch for Sweat Demons if you’re focused on little flashing lights?”

Spike tapped a finger to the side of his eye. “Vampire senses. Some of us can multitask.”

Angel frowned but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t as if Spike was really being helpful to begin with.

When they got to the club, they parked on the street then shimmied up the same tree they’d perched in the previous evening. Angel had no idea what kind of tree it was, but it had lots of branches and big, camouflaging leaves. And it wasn’t too badly infested with ants. He hated ants.

He’d intentionally arrived early, so they could get into their hiding spots before people were around to observe. But that meant they had time to kill, just sitting there as the patrons began to trickle in. Angel closed his eyes and leaned against the trunk and took a sort of catnap. Spike played his video game.

By midnight, though, the place was packed with tanned, half-naked bodies. The band was in full, cacophonous swing, and Angel could smell sweet and sour alcohol and marijuana and several hundred mingled perfumes and colognes and young, almost innocent lust. His stomach growled. There was no sign yet of the Sweat Demons.

“Prettier than parties back in our day, innit?’ Spike said. “Back before proper dentistry and cosmetic surgery and fancy hair dyes and implants and Pilates.”

“It’s Wednesday night. Don’t these people have jobs?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “It’s spring holidays, berk. These kiddies are trying to get in loads of drinking and shagging before they return to their studies. Wish we’d had holidays like this when I was at university.”

Angel looked at him in surprise. “You went to university?”

Spike appeared offended. “Cambridge. Queens’ College. Studied Renaissance literature. I was in the Amateur Dramatic Club and I wrote for the student literary journal.”

Angel almost laughed, but Spike looked completely serious. “Really?” Angel said.

“Really, twit. ‘M not an idiot, you know.”

Angel opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. The truth was, Spike really did know a lot of things, like languages and Shakespeare and historical trivia. Angel had never really thought before of where Spike might have learned them. Hell, he’d never really thought much at all about what William Pratt’s life had been like before he stumbled into Drusilla one night in London.

“I never went to school,” Angel finally said. “My da hired me a tutor, but I didn’t really take to it. Had my mind on other things, I guess. I was barely literate when Darla turned me.” He swallowed back the unexpected salty taste of tears. It had been a long time since he thought of his youth.

“Well, you picked up a thing or two over the years. I reckon if you give him a couple of centuries, even a fool can learn something.”

Angel blinked at him, surprised that Spike hadn’t used his unplanned admission to make fun of him. He’d even given a backhanded compliment, in a Spikish kind of way.

Spike grinned broadly and reached in his coat. He came back out with a silver flask, which he unscrewed and tipped to his mouth. Angel watched his delicate throat work as he swallowed. Spike held his arm out, offering the flask to Angel, who took it and had a sip of his own. Whiskey, Midleton Very Rare. Undoubtedly stolen from Angel’s penthouse. But he just drank some more and handed the flask back.

Spike took another long drink. “What do you expect our old, human selves would think of us if they met us now? Other than wondering what in bloody hell we’re doing sitting in a tree, that is.”

“Vampire stuff aside?”

“Yeah.”

“Liam would call me a poof and try to beat the crap out of me,” Angel said. “Then he’d fuck his way through the steno pool.”

Spike laughed. “And William would look appalled at me and run home to tell his Mum all about it.”

“You did sort of have some mommy issues.”

“Yeah,” Spike sighed. “’Course, _you_ had daddy issues.”

Angel grimaced. “Let’s not go there, okay?”

To his surprise, Spike complied. He handed the flask over again. Angel drank and gave it back.

Maybe it was the whiskey, or the balmy spring air. Maybe Angel was just in a strange mood that night. “You know,” he said, “I always thought there must have been more to William than just bad poetry and starched shirts.”

Spike’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh?” Then he narrowed his eyes warily, as if he expected Angel to say something nasty.

“Yeah. I mean, you had passion, even then. It was stupid, pointless passion, yeah, but still. And as soon as you were turned, you had this sort of…gusto. Bravado. That wasn’t just the demon, I don’t think.”

Spike’s mouth had fallen open in a look of comical surprise. He shook his head as if to collect himself and looked down at the club. “Ta,” he mumbled.

“Now, if Liam and William had met—”

“Liam would have trounced William in a thrice.”

Angel’s mouth quirked at Spike’s unconsciously antique phrasing. “Yeah, he would have. But only because he was envious.”

“Envious?”

“Because he would have known that William was a better man.”

Spike just stared at him, wide-eyed. Then he tilted his head like a bird, which was appropriate under the circumstances. “Has somebody put some mojo on you, Peaches? You’re not your usual broody, dickish self.”

“I’m probably delusional. I haven’t slept for two days.”

“Well, I fancy you better sleep-deprived, then.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. They finished off the whiskey. Angel didn’t say anything when Spike lit a cigarette, but only watched the smoke waft its way through the leaves.

At two a.m., Angel thought he saw a Sweat Demon sidling up behind a slender blonde. He was about to say something to Spike, but then demon and girl both disappeared, and he realized he’d been dreaming with his eyes open. “I’m not doing this again,” he announced suddenly, making Spike startle a little. “This is stupid. I have better ways to spend my time.”

“What about the client?”

“Screw the client.” Angel rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I’ll find someone else to do it. It’s not like we don’t have a thousand fucking employees.”

After a short silence, Spike said, “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t even really work for us.”

“Been meaning to talk to you about that. A paycheck would be nice.”

“I thought you were the one telling me to stop working for the evil law firm.”

“Yeah. But the flat Lindsey gave me is a bloody cesspit. I know you don’t care, with your posh penthouse and necrotinted windows, but I’d fancy a place with proper hot water now and then, and fewer cockroaches. I could be an independent contractor, like. Not a real employee. Until you come to your limited senses and tell W&amp;H to bugger off.”

Angel didn’t really care one way or the other. Spike was apparently going to stick around no matter what, and God knew the firm had plenty of money. “Fine. If that satisfies your conscience.”

Spike snorted. “Mate, my conscience is _never_ going to be satisfied, no more than yours will.”

Not long afterward, the last of the customers straggled home, and Angel again watched the club’s employees close up for the night. When the neon sign in front winked off, he stretched. “Time to head home. Maybe I can catch a little shuteye this time.”

He started to descend. He was nearly to the ground when a terrible _crack_ sounded from above him. He looked up just in time to see Spike plummet off a broken branch, his fingers clutching uselessly at the air as he fell. Below him was a larger branch, this one with an offshoot that pointed straight up. Angel realized with horror that Spike was going to land directly on this living stake.

Angel tried to scramble back up the tree, but of course it was far too late. Spike hit the branch and screamed, a horrible, almost inhuman sound that echoed off the buildings around them. His weight caused that branch to break as well, and Spike and branch tumbled down, landing on the pavement below with a sick thump.

Angel leapt off the tree and managed to alight on his feet.

The first thing he noticed was that Spike was not dust.

The second thing he noticed was that he was enormously relieved to discover Spike still intact.

And the third thing he noticed was that Spike actually wasn’t all that intact after all. The branch was protruding through his chest, a good three feet of bloody wood sticking up straight. It had missed Spike’s heart by inches. Spike’s back was slightly bowed over the main branch, but his head was on the concrete, right in the middle of a spreading scarlet pool. Spike was motionless.

“Oh, fuck,” Angel moaned. He was frozen, as if moving might make Spike dust after all.

But he couldn’t leave Spike like that, of course, and it wasn’t as if he could call for a demon ambulance. So, treading carefully, Angel stepped closer. He knelt beside Spike, ignoring the way the scent of Spike’s blood made his mouth water. “Spike?” he said.

Spike didn’t respond.

After another moment or two of indecision—during which the blood came close enough to stain Angel’s shoes—he pulled out his cell phone. He fumbled with it a moment, silently praying to whatever would listen that he’d remembered to charge it.

Wes’s sleepy voice answered. “Wyndam-Pryce.”

“Wes? I need your help.”

“What is it?” Wes sounded immediately wide awake.

“It’s…Spike’s been hurt. I need help getting him home—I’ll never get him in the Viper. Can you come right away with a van or something? I’m at Playa Azul, at the corner of—”

“I know where it is. Give me twenty minutes.”

The line went dead. Angel put the phone back in his pocket. He tentatively reached toward the branch and then, wincing, broke off the protruding part a few inches above Spike’s body. Spike gave a deep, gurgling groan as the wood moved, but didn’t open his eyes. Angel stood. He cradled Spike’s head in one hand, trying very hard not to notice the spongy feel of the skull in his palm, and slid the other arm under Spike’s waist. As carefully as possible, he lifted Spike off the branch. Spike came free of the wood with a wet, sucking sound that made Angel’s stomach lurch. He set Spike gently down on a small patch of grass that ran between the sidewalk and the street.

He glanced at his watch. Eighteen minutes to go. Damn it.

Spike tried to breathe. His body spasmed slightly and one arm flailed, then he was still again. Angel set one hand on Spike’s shoulder, wondering whether Spike could feel it, whether it would comfort him if he did. Angel had a sudden, inappropriate sense memory. The weight of that body atop his, straddling him. Narrow hips moving up and down, bruising under his fingertips. Tight, silky channel gripping him, warmed from friction, clutching so tightly it almost hurt. Long, slender prick bouncing against a hard belly, tied to it with strings of pearly liquid. Hard chest heaving. Head thrown back, eyes fluttering and lush bottom lip hanging open, curls the color of tarnished gold brushing against shoulders. Tiny rivulets of blood streaming down a pale neck; from around one pink, peaked nipple; across prominent ribs. A century-old remembrance, fresh as anything he’d done this day. Fresher.

“Fuck,” Angel said again. He shifted his face, then tore into his own left wrist. He held it against Spike’s mouth, staining his lips crimson, and although Spike still didn’t open his eyes, he swallowed. He kept swallowing until Angel’s wound had closed, and then Angel took his arm away. He considered biting again, but didn’t. He didn’t want to be too weak, not right now.

An eternity or so later, a black van came to a rapid halt alongside the curb. Without bothering to cut the engine, Wesley hopped out and ran over. His hair was a mess and he was wearing a pajama shirt and jeans. Under other circumstances it might have been funny. “Good Lord,” he said when he saw Spike. “What happened? You didn’t—”

“He fell.” Angel pointed up at the damned tree. “Impaled himself. Split his head open. Get the back open, Wes, please.”

Wes scurried to comply, while Angel gingerly scooped Spike into his arms. Spike’s head and limbs hung limply, but at least it looked like he’d stopped bleeding. Of course, that might be because there wasn’t much blood left in him to come out. Angel set Spike in the back of the van, then clambered in beside him. “Can you send someone by to get the Viper, please? It’s just up the street.”

“Of course. Where to, Angel? Wolfram &amp; Hart?”

“Ye— No.” The firm had doctors, of course. Capable ones, like the ones who’d reattached Spike’s hands. But for no reason he could articulate, Angel couldn’t face handing his unconscious descendant over to them. Couldn’t allow them to touch Spike. “Take us to the Hyperion, Wes.”

Wesley’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment. He slammed the doors shut and came around to the cab. A moment later they were zooming through nearly empty streets. Soon, but not soon enough for Angel’s taste, they stopped. Wes opened the back doors and Angel hopped out before taking Spike in his arms again.

Angel hadn’t spent time at the hotel in months. But he’d driven by now and then, just to make sure the place was still standing, he supposed, and Gunn was making sure the taxes were paid and minimal maintenance was kept up. Wes had warded the place to keep squatters out. Angel didn’t like to think about it too much, but some part of him really hoped he’d be able to return to the Hyperion for good, sooner rather than later.

Now, Wes held the front door for Angel. Once inside, Angel looked around uncertainly for a moment, then headed to the elevator.

His suite was pretty much as he’d left it. Dusty, though. Wes followed his instructions to strip the bed and put on fresh sheets. Angel’s arms and shoulders ached as he waited—Spike wasn’t exactly light—but Angel was somehow glad for the solid weight of him.

Angel set Spike down on the crisp white bedding. Spike was almost as white as it was. “Wes, I need you to get me some blood. A lot. Human.”

“I rang for it while I drove. It should arrive shortly.”

Angel nodded with satisfaction. Sometimes the law firm’s contacts came in handy.

“Is there anything else I can do, Angel? Some medicines, perhaps, or—”

“No, thanks, Wes. Not much helps a vamp except time and blood.”

“Then I’ll go downstairs and wait for the delivery. I take it you’d like me to ring the office as well and let them know you won’t be in?”

“Yeah.” Definitely yes. Angel was in no mood for meetings and paperwork now. God, he was exhausted.

Wes left the room. Angel went to his small kitchen and rooted around in the drawer until he found a pair of scissors. He brought them back to the bed with him and used them to cut Spike’s t-shirt down the center. He peeled the fabric away, flinching when it stuck to the gaping hole.

As gently as possible and with a good amount of difficulty, Angel undressed Spike. He pulled off the boots, the bloodstained jeans. No underwear, of course. He had to chuckle slightly at that. Spike had been going commando since the nineteenth century. He tried not to stare at Spike’s cock, soft and hooded, nestled in crisp curls. He remembered what that cock tasted like, how Spike’s high, tight balls felt in his mouth.

Spike’s beloved duster had a large, ragged puncture in the back. Angel put it in the trash—he knew that after their trip to Rome, Spike owned several identical ones. He did take care, though, to remove the silver flask and video game and lighter—all inexplicably in better shape than Spike—before he discarded the coat. To his surprise, he also found a small book with a plain, black leather cover. It looked ancient, and was held together with three red rubber bands. He considered looking inside, but of course he had more important things to do now than being nosy. He set the book and the other items on the bedside table.

Finally, Angel peeled off the remains of the t-shirt and removed Spike’s jewelry—a heavy silver chain he wore around his neck, three wide rings. They went with Spike’s other things, and it occurred to Angel that that small pile might very well represent most of Spike’s worldly possessions.

Angel cautiously turned Spike onto his side, trying to assess the extent of his injuries. But his hair was so thickly matted with sticky blood that Angel couldn’t see much of anything, and Spike’s chest and back weren’t much better. The hole through Spike’s body was wide enough that Angel could easily have inserted a finger, had he wanted to. It looked like little bits of splinters and dirt were caught in it.

What Angel wanted to do right then, more than anything else in the world, was crawl into bed next to Spike and pull the blankets up over them and cradle Spike in his arms and go to sleep. Instead, he walked wearily into the bathroom and started filling the tub.

By the time Wes came back with a yellow sports bottle in his hand, Spike was submerged in the reddened water, only a little of his face visible. Wes handed the bottle to Angel and looked down as Angel inserted the straw into Spike’s mouth. They both watched Spike drink. “How badly injured is he?” asked Wes.

“The hole in his chest—I think that’ll be okay. He’s had as bad as that done to me, now that I think of it. It didn’t hit his spine.”

“And his head?”

“I don’t know. He fractured his skull, but I don’t know how much damage was done to his brain.” Angel was pretty sure that a brain-damaged vampire would heal, just as Spike had eventually recovered from his spinal cord injury in Sunnydale. What Angel didn’t know was what the results would be. Would the vampire retain or recover his memories? Would his personality remain the same? Angel pictured someone who looked like Spike but wasn’t, was someone else entirely, and his response wasn’t delight but horror.

“Angel, I—”

“Look, Wes. Head back to the office, okay? Keep things under control there. I’ll call you later.”

Wes frowned, but nodded. “Very well. I’ve put the rest of the blood in the refrigerator. Ring if you need more.”

Wes patted his shoulder, a little awkwardly maybe, but still nice. Angel reached over with his free hand and clutched Wesley’s wrist for just a moment, letting his actions convey the gratitude his mouth seemed unable to express. Wes left.

When the plastic bottle was empty, Angel went to the kitchen and refilled it. As Spike drank that one down as well, Angel drained the filthy water from the tub and put in more, nice and hot. Spike stopped swallowing after a while, so Angel set the bottle on the edge of the tub and grabbed a washcloth instead. He dabbed carefully at Spike’s chest, working away the last of the crusted blood. While he was at it, he washed the rest of Spike’s body as well, not so much because Spike needed it but because Angel found it oddly soothing.

He lifted Spike’s head out of the water and felt the back of it. There was no question the bone was broken; he could feel the shards shifting slightly even under his gentle pressure. Most of the bleeding, though, probably came from a good-sized laceration in the scalp. Spike must have cut himself on the tree as he fell, or maybe there was something sharp on the ground where he landed. Maybe a piece of the bone had pierced the skin. In any case, the cut was already sealing and the skin was nearly intact again. Angel suspected that his own blood had sped the repairs a little; sire’s blood was powerful stuff.

Angel drained the tub again. He patted Spike as dry as he could—it was awkward—and then lifted him. As he did, Spike’s eyes fluttered open. They didn’t focus, though—just stared off blankly at nothing. The pupils were uneven, the left one closed almost to a pinpoint, while the right was so dilated that very little of the blue iris showed. “Spike,” Angel said. “William.”

Spike didn’t respond. By the time Angel set him down on the bed—Wes had changed the sheets again, getting rid of the blood-smeared ones—Spike’s eyes were closed again. Angel fetched the sports bottle and tried to give him more blood, but he wouldn’t swallow. His stomach was a little distended, Angel saw. He was probably pretty full. So Angel finished off the bottle himself, moaning softly at the taste of human blood, which he so rarely allowed himself. Afterward, he rooted through the cupboards, and grunted with satisfaction when he discovered an intact bottle of Jameson. He poured himself a couple inches of the stuff, paused, and poured some more. He threw it back in one searing gulp.

 At long last, he kicked off his shoes and stripped off his clothes. He wondered for a moment whether he had any clean ones left here, then decided that could wait for later. With an enormous sigh of relief, he got into bed and pulled Spike’s pliant body against his. Because he was half-asleep already and slightly buzzed, and because Spike would never know, he stuck his nose against the crook of Spike’s neck and inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of him deep into dead lungs. He kissed the cool skin very briefly and fell asleep.

[Part Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/153861.html) 


	2.  Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Some time during AtS S5, Spike and Angel go out together on a mission. Based on my nekid numbers prompts of Angel, tree, spring vacation, and hurt/comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post both parts today. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[sitting in a tree](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/sitting%20in%20a%20tree), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/angel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree (2/2)**_  
**Title:** Angel and Spike, Sitting in a Tree   
**Part:** 2 of 2    
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Some time during AtS S5, Spike and Angel go out together on a mission. Based on my nekid numbers prompts of Angel, tree, spring vacation, and hurt/comfort.   
**Credits: **Thank you to my wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , and to [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)  for the excellent banner!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post both parts today. Comments are adored!

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cby55/)  
---  
  
**Part Two   
**

            The telephone was not Angel’s favorite invention. Yes, it was convenient sometimes. But it was also an intrusion, especially nowadays when everyone had the things on them all the time; and they yammered on them while they drove, while they walked. Hell, a few weeks ago he’d wandered into a shopping mall bathroom in search of an errant demon, and some guy was sitting in a stall, blabbing away even then.

So when Angel’s phone began to ring, he awoke with a growl. He glanced down at Spike, who was still clutched against Angel’s chest. No signs of awareness. Angel grabbed the phone from the bedside.

“What?”

“Angel. I’m sorry, but—”

“Wes, I said I’d call you later.”

“Yes, but it _is_ later, you see. Quite a bit later. I was growing concerned.”

Angel still wore his watch, and he looked at it. “It’s just after eight a.m., Wes. I’ve only been asleep, what? Two hours?”

“It’s eight on Friday, Angel.” Wes paused to let that sink in.

“Friday? Oh, shit.” Angel sat up and rubbed at his face. He’d slept for over a day. “Sorry, Wes. I was just so tired….”

“It’s fine, Angel. I only wanted to make sure you were all right. How’s Spike?”

Angel glanced down at the vampire in question. His eyelids were so delicate-looking, traced with faint blue lines. They reminded Angel of rice paper. His hair, usually so carefully slicked back or shellacked into place, tumbled in wild snarls. Angel hadn’t brushed his hair after the bath. His lips were slightly parted and Angel wanted to suck the bottom one into his mouth, to nick it just very slightly with one fang, to taste Spike’s blood sparking and sweet on his tongue.

“Angel?”

Angel shook his head rapidly. “Sorry. He’s the same, I guess.”

“I’ve done a bit of research. Do you want to hear the results?”

“Yes.” It sounded more like a question than an answer.

“There’s not much information on the subject, actually. I expect vampires don’t often have the opportunity to convalesce.”

Angel reached over and stroked a lock of hair out of Spike’s face. “No. Not often.”

“In any event, the results seem…mixed. There have been a few documented cases of vampires receiving significant head injuries and mending quite well. In other instances, however….”

“What, Wes? Spit it out.”

“You’re familiar with the project called the Initiative, yes? They were in Sunnydale for some time.”

“Yeah, I know them. Those assholes who chipped Spike.” When Angel had heard about the chip, his reaction had been mostly mild relief—with Spike defanged, Angel wouldn’t have to stake him to protect Buffy or anyone else. Now, belatedly, he was furious that someone would mutilate Spike that way. Oh fuck, he was in deep trouble.

Wes interrupted his thoughts. “Wolfram &amp; Hart acquired their records, apparently, and I’ve been reading through them. Angel, before they developed the control chips, the Initiative captured some vampires and deliberately damaged their brains. Gave them rather extreme versions of lobotomies. I’ve no idea what they meant to accomplish by this. Those…subjects…were incapacitated for some time. When they finally regained consciousness, they were completely feral. No trace of human memories or higher reasoning at all. They never improved, either, even after considerable time. The last of the subjects had remained in this condition for nearly three years when the experiment was terminated.”

Angel shut his eyes and said nothing.

“Angel, if Spike were to be like that—”

“If he ends up like that, I’ll dust him myself.”

 

***

 

For a week, Spike slept.

Angel fed him pint after pint of blood. Spike swallowed it, taking in much more than he normally would, and that gave Angel hope that his body was still healing. Certainly the visible wounds were gone and Spike’s skull felt as solid as usual. But he didn’t move at all other than to drink and to occasionally open his eyes and stare at nothing. He didn’t respond to Angel’s words or touch.

Wesley came by three times with more blood and paperwork that most urgently needed signing. He said everything else at the firm was under control. The Senior Partners had apparently been making noises of discontent over Angel’s absence, but they could still be put off for now. Fred visited twice, bringing clean clothes for both of them. Angel’s came from his penthouse, but Spike’s were brand new. She cried a little over Spike and kissed his scarred eyebrow. Gunn came once, too, with more paperwork, but also to pat awkwardly at Spike’s arm and tell him to wake the hell up. Lorne was by, and Angel hoped maybe he could get some sort of reading off Spike, some idea of what was going on in that head, but Lorne only shook his head sadly. “Only works when they’re conscious, Angelcake.”

 Even Harmony visited. She brought a mylar “Get Well” balloon that was tied to the paw of a stuffed bear.

When Angel wasn’t entertaining visitors or feeding Spike, he paced. He dusted and scrubbed his suite. He tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. He practiced tai chi—he hadn’t done that in a long time. He learned how to play Spike’s stupid handheld video game. And he slept, more than he’d slept in decades, always holding Spike tightly as if that would help protect him from harm.

One night he gave in to the temptation and opened the book Spike had carried in his pocket. The pages were almost filled with words written in Spike’s careful copperplate. Poems, mostly, and Angel kind of liked some of them. There were also lists of things, with half the items crossed out: _Holy_ _water_, _chains, gag, pokers, Mozart_. To-do lists for various schemes that Spike had never quite had the patience to carry out. Some of the entries were entirely cryptic, and a few, probably dating from the time immediately after Spike regained his soul, were completely insane. There were also a few loose items tucked into the book. A photo of Joyce and Buffy and Dawn, taken on a family outing to some sort of theme park, it seemed. They looked very happy. A small piece of torn black lace that looked suspiciously like something Drusilla might wear on her cuffs or around her throat. A bit of thin, blood-stained fabric with the embroidered letters “A E P” just barely legible. And a folded, tattered sketch. It was a self-portrait Angel had done of himself many years ago, one day in Saint Petersburg when he’d been trying to remember what his own face had looked like. He’d never quite finished it, but had thrown it away in disgust.

Angel wondered how these fragile things had managed to survive Spike’s incineration, and all the other things that had happened to him before and since. How much effort had it taken for Spike to hang onto these little scraps?

Angel carefully tucked everything back inside the book and replaced the rubber bands. He put the book back on the nightstand.

Nine days after Spike fell out of the tree, as Angel lay in bed beside him, twining Spike’s hair around one finger and daydreaming about Ireland, Spike opened his eyes. And for the first time in nine days, the pupils were even, and the gaze was focused. Maybe not as sharp as Spike’s normal, but aware.

“William,” Angel said, and held his breath.

Spike blinked at him. His eyes shifted, taking in Angel’s bare chest, the hair that Angel hadn’t bothered to gel into spikes, the large hand that was still resting on the blankets over Spike’s belly. He looked back into Angel’s eyes. “Poof,” he whispered in a tiny, creaky voice.

Angel wanted to cry, or to howl with relief. Maybe both. Instead, he took a deep breath and then let it out. “How are you feeling, Spike?”

Spike blinked, as if it was slightly difficult to process the words. “Head hurts,” he finally said. “Feels…thick.” He was slurring a little bit like he did when he was really drunk.

“Do you…do you remember who you are?”

More blinking. “Spike. Berk.”

Angel grinned. “Do you know what happened?”

Spike’s brow furrowed. “Tree.”

“Yeah. You fell. You managed to impale yourself in the process and you landed on your head. Good thing you didn’t land on anything you use very much, huh?”

“Wanker.”

Angel’s smile grew even wider.

Spike’s arms moved and his shoulders twitched, and Angel realized he was trying to sit up. So Angel lifted Spike’s torso and propped some pillows behind him. Spike looked around in puzzlement. “Where?”

“The Hyperion. My hotel. I, uh, thought you’d be more comfortable here.” He saw Spike frown again at the balloon and quickly said, “That’s from Harmony. The others have been by, too.”

Understandably, Spike looked a little dazed. “How long?”

“Nine days. Nine days, and we weren’t even sure if— Well, it’s been a slow recovery, I guess.” When Spike just looked at him, Angel added, “Want some blood? I’ll get you some.”

“Yeah.”

Angel stood, remembering belatedly and self-consciously that he’d been lying in bed naked. Spike’s eyes widened a bit as he took in Angel’s nudity.

“Hey! You were in my bed. The only bed in here. And I wasn’t gonna sleep on the chair, or sleep in my clothing, or….” Angel trailed off, feeling stupid and defensive. “I’ll go get that blood now.”

He stopped to pull on a pair of pants first. When he came back with the sports bottle, Spike actually reached out to hold it himself, his hands a little shaky. He raised an eyebrow at the plastic straw but then stuck it in his mouth and drank. When he pulled it away, he said, “Human.”

“Yeah. Blood bank. We thought you’d heal faster that way.”

Spike shut his eyes, squeezed them tight, really, as if he were concentrating very hard. When he opened them again, he just asked, “Why?”

Angel scratched nervously at his neck. “You were hurt, um, in the line of duty, sort of. So I figured we at least owed you—_I_ at least owed you this. Patching you back up, getting you back on your feet.”

Spike had to think a moment more, gathering words with difficulty. “If Wes was hurt. Charlie. You’d do this?” He waved at the spot on the bed that Angel had recently vacated.

Angel winced and hung his head. He looked everywhere in the room but at Spike. But eventually his gaze was drawn back to that familiar face. “No,” he admitted. “Not this. The thing is, I kinda realized…maybe I don’t hate you. Very much.”

He hunched over and waited for Spike to make fun of him, to reject him. But the smile that eventually lit up Spike’s face wasn’t a mean one, wasn’t mocking at all. In fact, it was…happy. Slightly shy, maybe. Surprised. But definitely happy. It was beautiful.

Spike moved his unsteady arm again and patted Angel’s side of the bed. “Knackered. Come back.”

Angel hesitated only a moment before dropping the trousers he’d just put on. Spike managed a wobbly sort of leer that, more than any other sign, assured Angel that he would be all right. Angel climbed in beside him and pulled Spike down so they were spooned together, Spike’s back to Angel’s front, Angel’s arm slung over Spike’s hip. Angel’s cock nestled comfortably against Spike’s firm, smooth ass. Spike pressed back into him and sighed contentedly. “Stayed in LA for you, berk,” he said very quietly. “All I have.”

Angel kissed the back of Spike’s head, and Spike chuckled. “Shag later. I top.” He snuggled impossibly closer into Angel’s embrace, yawned, and then fell asleep.

Angel didn’t, though. He thought about what Spike had said to him, that first night in the tree. How Angel should leave Wolfram &amp; Hart and his friends would follow. Thought about how those same friends had come through for him when Spike was hurt, helping him care for Spike, covering for him at work, not asking invasive questions. Just…supporting him. Supporting them. Thought about the strong, wiry body that he held close, and the infuriating, intoxicating, _complicated_ vampire it belonged to. He could do it, he realized. Leave the firm and with the help of the others find some way to destroy Wolfram &amp; Hart without grinding down his own soul in the process.

He would do it.

But first he’d wait for Spike to fully heal, and then maybe they’d go on a little trip together. See if they could find someone who could finally and permanently pin on his soul, once and for all. Just in case he got too happy.

And while they were at it, he figured maybe he and Spike could turn it into a little spring vacation. He imagined Spike shirtless under a star-speckled sky, swaying to soft music—Barry White?—and sipping from a cup that contained a paper umbrella stabbed into a hunk of pineapple. He grinned and kissed Spike’s head again, and he fell into sweet dreams.

 

_\---fin---_


End file.
